So much has already been written about this album that there isn't a whole lot for me to add. Death Magnetic represented the long overdue return to form that put Metallica back on the map as a serious metal band after a string of progressively worsening, alternative music influenced titles drove their original core audience farther and farther away. And make no mistake about it, this is a good album of strong material, the best thing the band had released in a good seventeen years, and FAR better than the god awful St. Anger that led even the most diehard Metallica fans to turn up their noses. Unfortunately, it's marred by some of the most egregiously distorted mixing and mastering I've ever heard. This is an album so distorted that even the mastering engineer was embarrassed to be associated with it, an album notable for having brought awareness of the Loudness War into the mainstream consciousness. Along with albums such as Bob Dylan's Modern Times, The Red Hot Chili Peppers' Californication, and Rush's Vapor Trails, Death Magnetic is a poster child for the Loudness War, with levels on some tracks approaching Raw Power levels. Distortion and clipping are rampant throughout, in particular during the tom and double bass hits on "Broken, Beat & Scarred" and "Cyanide," and to a really extreme degree through the entirety of "The Day That Never Comes," the album's first single. Even without the painfully audible distortion, the compression and peak limiting of the instruments - the drums in particular - only dampen the explosive dynamism and excitement generated by an otherwise killer collection of material. While the bass sounds mostly okay, the distorted crunch of the massively overdriven guitars and dead, dry as a bone thump of the snare drum really weaken the vitality of these songs. I imagine this entire album kicks some major ass when played live, but the resulting studio interpretation of these tracks is just sad. It's really a bit surprising that a major label would actually release something like this, but here we have it.

Around the time of Death Magnetic's release, numerous Guitar Hero aficionados noticed that the game's soundtrack featured a set of early, unpolished mixes of the album's content, and, realizing this, a number of Metallica fans took it upon themselves to re-record and/or remix the entire album using stems obtained from the video game. I'm including two of those here: the first, a set of recordings made straight from a perfect playback of the Guitar Hero game, recorded direct out; the second, a "mystery mix" from around 2008 and also made from the stems, but with EQ applied and with an actual attempt having been made to remix a listenable version of the album. The "mystery mix" is included here for comparison purposes only and is not evaluated.

The Fisherman Short Film -

Most striking is the film’s use of negative space. Long, static shots force the viewer to scan the empty frame, waiting for the ripple that signals the ghost’s approach. This enforced patience mirrors the fisherman’s own agonizing wait. We become complicit in his ritual. When the ghost finally appears, she is rendered in translucent, sketch-like lines—impermanent, fragile, already dissolving. The animation style itself suggests memory: sharp in the foreground (the fisherman’s weathered hands, the splintered wood of the boat) but blurred and flickering where the past intrudes upon the present.

At its surface, the film presents a simple premise: a lone fisherman (the protagonist) in a small wooden boat casts his line into a dark, amorphous sea. Yet, the act of fishing is immediately subverted. The fisherman does not seek sustenance or sport; he seeks a specific, phantasmal catch. Every time his line tugs, he reels up not a fish, but a spectral, glowing manifestation of a woman—his wife, as we infer from a brief, heart-wrenching flashback. the fisherman short film

In the vast ocean of short-form cinema, where every frame must carry the weight of narrative economy, Sam Handsley’s 2017 animated short film, The Fisherman , emerges as a masterclass in silent storytelling. Without a single line of dialogue, the film constructs a devastatingly precise allegory for grief, guilt, and the Sisyphean nature of trauma. Through its haunting hand-drawn aesthetic, cyclical narrative structure, and profound use of negative space, The Fisherman transcends its brief runtime to become a universal meditation on how the living are eternally haunted by the ghosts they choose to catch and release. Most striking is the film’s use of negative space

The brilliance of Handsley’s script lies in this central metaphor. The fisherman is not a worker but a penitent. The repetitive action of casting, hooking, and reeling mimics the compulsive cycles of grief. Psychologists describe rumination as the tendency to repeatedly circle the same painful memories; The Fisherman visualizes this as a physical, maritime labor. The “catch” is not a reward but a confrontation. Each time the ghostly figure surfaces, the fisherman is forced to relive the moment of her loss—implied to be a drowning he either caused or could not prevent. The act of pulling her from the depths is a futile attempt to reverse time, to resurrect the dead through sheer mechanical repetition. We become complicit in his ritual

The film’s visual language amplifies its thematic desolation. Rendered in muted grays, deep indigos, and the sickly yellow of the ghost’s ethereal glow, the color palette rejects vitality. The sea is not a dynamic force but a stagnant, viscous void—a liquid purgatory. The fisherman’s boat is a claustrophobic coffin, barely distinguishable from the water that surrounds it. This lack of horizon line, the blending of sea and sky, creates a world without escape, a liminal plane where the rules of geography give way to the logic of the psyche.

This structural choice is the film’s final, most damning statement on unresolved grief. For those trapped in the amber of a past tragedy, time does not move forward. It loops. The fisherman is not a character who develops; he is a condition that persists. The film suggests that some sorrows are so profound that they cease to be events and become instead a permanent state of being. The short film’s brevity is not a limitation but a necessity: any longer, and the cycle would become unbearable; any shorter, and its inescapable nature would not be felt.